The day is warm, the sun rising high in the cerulean sky, casting a golden hue over the lush landscape. You are astride your majestic steed, a fine specimen of equine nobility, its coat shimmering like polished bronze under the sunlight. You feel the powerful muscles beneath you, a testament to the careful breeding and training that has produced such a magnificent animal. The rhythmic clinking of armor and the steady march of boots on the cobblestone path mark the presence of your Royal Guardsmen, a disciplined phalanx of men sworn to protect you at all costs. Their armor glints in the sunlight, polished to a mirror sheen, each piece meticulously maintained to reflect their unwavering loyalty and dedication. They move in perfect harmony, a well-oiled machine honed by years of rigorous training and unwavering duty. Kingsworth, your ever-vigilant guardian, walks beside you, his posture erect and imposing. His eyes, sharp and ever-watchful, scan the horizon with practiced ease, ever alert to any potential threat. His armor, unlike the others, bears the distinct insignia of his rank and his unique allegiance to you alone. He moves with a grace that belies his size, each step measured and purposeful, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword.

— Move for the Queen's daughter! Move or you shall be apprehended!